


Other Tales

by baggvinshield



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Shire, Angst, Bagginshield alphabet, Battle of Five Armies, Bilbo Baggins Dies, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mirkwood, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Prompt Fill, The One Ring is Bad News
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:08:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4326135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baggvinshield/pseuds/baggvinshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short Bagginshield fic(let)s originally posted to <a href="http://baggvinshield.tumblr.com">my tumblr</a> that I want to have compiled all in one place. </p><p>Ch 1: A Merrier Place - A day in the shire. Fluff, Shire AU, everyone lives.<br/>Ch 2: Defeated - Thorin reacts to Bilbo's death on Raven Hill.<br/>Ch 3: In His Pocket - Bilbo thinks he has the Arkenstone in his pocket. Post-botfa, canon compliant.<br/>Ch 4: E is for "Erebor" and "Embrace" - Bilbo returns to Erebor. Fluff for the Bagginshield Alphabet. Everyone lives.<br/>Ch 5: More than a song - After the funeral, Bilbo goes to see Thorin one last time. Grief, canon compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Merrier Place

**Author's Note:**

> This work is not beta read, so please excuse any typos that I may have missed in my editing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the Shire.  
> Tags: Shire AU, Everyone Lives AU, Uncle Thorin, Fluff and happiness galore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anonymoussong and filiandkiliheirsofdurin.

* * *

 

 

THE HOBBIT stalked closer to his target, careful to disturb the grass he walked on as little as possible, trying to keep his breathing even and slow, his little sword steady in his hand. A twig snapped suddenly underfoot, and he froze, looking down almost comically at the offending stick; his quarry didn’t react, however, still leaning with his back against the trunk of the great tree, possibly asleep.

 

And so the hobbit crept closer, intent on the motionless form of the great dwarf. He would have to rely on stealth, and accuracy with his small blade, if this attempt was to be successful. He moved closer, and closer still, until finally he came within striking distance, and still the dwarf didn’t move - his eyes were closed, perhaps he was sleeping - and the hobbit raised his sword, a serious look on his face, gripping the hilt in both hands.

 

“For the Shire!” he cried in a high voice as he swung his weapon at the dwarf’s throat, and oh, victory!-

 

Thorin caught the wooden blade of the sword against his palm just as it nearly made contact with his neck, and cracked one eye open.

 

“You still walk too loudly, Frodo-lad,” Thorin said with a smile, and Frodo let out a groan, trying to tug his little sword back. A short bout of tug-o-war ensued until, grinning, the dwarf finally let go, and Frodo’s momentum sent him sprawling backwards into the grass.

 

The pair stared at one another, Frodo raising to his elbows and leveling Thorin with his best stern look, Thorin’s lips twitching; both burst into laughter.

 

“Come,” Thorin said, still chuckling, and got to his feet, brushing grass from his trousers, “your uncle will want you washed up before dinner.”

 

“And you, too! You smell.”

 

“I smell like a dwarf, thank you,” Thorin retorted as they made their way across the field towards the hill of Bag End, “and because I was chopping firewood this morning.”

 

“Uncle doesn’t still smell from chopping firewood, because he bathed already.” Thorin smiled fondly at the twinkle of merriment in the small Hobbit’s blue eyes.

 

***

 

“Uncle Bilbo!” Frodo called as soon as he crossed the threshold into the smial, “I almost killed Uncle Thorin today!”

 

“Did you now,” Bilbo called from his study, voice muffled. “And what thwarted your attempt this time?”

 

“Too noisy on his feet,” Thorin answered, walking through to the sitting room.

 

“But I came close!” Frodo put away his little sword in a chest in the hall, following behind Thorin as he went. Bilbo emerged from his study after a moment, ink stains on two fingers of his right hand, and tut-tutted at the pair of them.

 

“Baths, both of you - especially you, Frodo, off you go now,” he said, “and you,” pointing at Thorin, “oh great oaf, can help me set the table first.”

 

***

 

Supper was a quiet but cheerful affair. Bilbo told them about the progress he’d made on his book around mouthfuls of meat pie, retelling a portion of the Tale of the Trolls for Frodo’s benefit. The Hobbit child laughed delightedly as he always did at the part where Bilbo began to talk to the trolls about how they ought to skin the dwarves.

 

“You thought he was serious at first, didn’t you Uncle Thorin?’ Frodo asked.

 

Thorin harrumphed, and took a keen interest in rearranging the boiled potatoes on his plate. “Your uncle Bilbo has always been the more clever of the two of us,” he said with a small smile, still studying his food, “and I would have been lost many times over without his quick wit and bravery.”

 

Bilbo looked at Thorin across the table with open fondness and perhaps a bit of a blush, until Thorin caught his gaze and smiled broadly. Frodo watched the silent exchange for a moment before declaring them both “lovesick tweens” and asking to be excused.

 

“Wash up your plate first,” Bilbo said. Thorin was still smiling in spite of himself.

 

***

 

Later in the evening, after Frodo had gone to bed, Bilbo and the dwarf sat in matching cushioned armchairs in the sitting room, Thorin reading a letter from his sister, and Bilbo studying a map of Rhovanion.

 

“Bilbo,” Thorin said after a time, and Bilbo hummed distractedly. “May I ask you something?”

 

Bilbo looked up and, at the sight of Thorin’s troubled expression, carefully folded his map and set it on the table beside him. “Of course,” he answered.

 

“Is it right, do you think, that I should be teaching Frodo to use a sword? Is it not considered… improper, by the standards of your people?”

 

Bilbo laughed and waved a hand. “This is what’s bothering you? Silly dwarf,” and he leaned over to squeeze Thorin’s arm.

 

Thorin’s troubled expression didn’t ebb. “But won’t he be called odd?”

 

“You mean, as I am?” Bilbo’s smile was bright and cheerful. “Thorin,” he continued gently, “Frodo is already thought of as odd, if for no other reason than that I am raising him, and with a dwarf for a husband no less.”

 

Thorin looked away at that, his brows furrowed and a frown upon his mouth.

 

“Do not judge the other hobbits too harshly now,” Bilbo stated. “All in all, I think they’re taking it in stride.”

 

“I do not wish to be a source of discomfort for you,” Thorin murmured, “or for Frodo.”

 

Bilbo snorted. “And you certainly aren’t. So don’t judge yourself too harshly, either. You are well-liked in Hobbiton, as is Frodo - I daresay as am I. In fact,” Bilbo smirked, “I think I’m better-liked since I brought you home, and took Frodo in. Apparently, even shacking up with a dwarf is better for respectability than living alone, as far as Hobbits are concerned.”

 

Thorin smiled at that, and reached to take Bilbo’s hand in his, stroking Bilbo’s palm with large fingers. “As you say,” he said teasingly.

 

“That’s right, as I say. Now that’s sorted - to bed with us, or I’ll be too tired to work on my book tomorrow, and you’ll be too tired for sword lessons, and Frodo really will get the better of you.”

 

Bilbo stood and tugged at Thorin’s hand. Thorin allowed himself to be pulled up out of his chair, and followed the Hobbit out and down the hall to the master bedroom.

 

It was late, truly, and tomorrow there were stories to write, lessons to teach, naps to catch under the shade tree, several meals to look forward to, and nothing much to worry about after all.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments are love :)


	2. Defeated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet based on this, which I received in tumblr: anonymous said:AlternateRavenhillEndingAU: Thorin defeating Azog, absolutely elated, running back to where Bilbo was to apologize for his actions at the gate and tell him they won. Slowing as he sees Dwalin walking toward him, carrying Bilbo in his arms...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter tags: Angst, major character death, grief, canon typical descriptions of injury/violence

* * *

 

 

 

 

Thorin wrenched Orcrist free from Azog’s body and the ice beneath, and staggered to his feet. Exhaustion made his limbs feel heavy, but as he looked down at the still body and vacant gaze of the Pale Orc and realized, finally, it’s over, he felt renewed vigor.

 

He put a hand against the wound in his side and felt the wetness of his own blood; he knew the wound was only superficial, Azog’s blade having caught mostly frayed mail and cloth as Thorin twisted at the last second after pulling Orcrist free from the deadly stalemate.

 

The cold, high wind felt like a splash of fresh water as Thorin turned to look down upon the battleground below. The tide was turning – the eagles had come – and Thorin was inexplicably alive. It wasn’t what he expected, but he was no less grateful for it.

 

The distant sounds of heavy footfalls to his left drew his attention, and he turned towards the bottom of the stone staircase. There, looking battle-weary and bloodied, stood Dwalin. And he was not alone. Thorin started towards him, moving as quickly as his weary limbs and injuries would allow, frantic panic spurring him faster, though he had already seen it.

 

In his arms Dwalin held the limp body of a small form clad in dark blue, curly hair obscuring the face. But Thorin would recognize him anywhere.

 

“Dwalin?” Thorin’s voice sounded like gravel to his own ears. His throat burned. He stopped walking, and Dwalin stood stock-still, a look of utter misery on his face.  The two dwarves stood on the edge of ruin in a bizarre faceoff, caught between hope and grief.

 

“But I sent you back to protect him,” Thorin rasped. “Dwalin?”

 

Dwalin broke eye contact, and his tears spilled over onto his cheeks as he looked to the ground.

 

“It cannot be.” In stark contrast to the enormity of the emptiness filling Thorin’s chest, his voice now was level, firm, assertive – the voice of a king.

 

“It cannot be,” he repeated. “Dwalin. Wake him.”

 

Stepping closer, finally closer, Thorin could just begin to see the red stain in Bilbo’s hair, the paleness of his skin, the unnatural limpness in his limbs. Dwalin shook his head.

 

On the edge of the ice, Thorin sank to his knees.

 

Defeated.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this ask](http://baggvinshield.tumblr.com/post/121527255923/alternateravenhillendingau-thorin-defeating-azog).
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments are love.


	3. In His Pocket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has he got in his pocket?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in the middle of the night for a prompt on tumblr. 
> 
> Chapter tags: Canon-compliant, angst, grief. Full prompt in the notes at the end.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Bilbo wakes in darkness. A feeling like dread has settled over him in his sleep, and he instinctively stays as still as possible, trying to determine his own whereabouts. He’s laying on a hard surface; he is neither cold nor too warm, and it is too dark to see. For long moments, he isn’t entirely sure where he is, and then he shifts and feels a hard weight pulling at his coat pocket.

_The Arkenstone._

_Erebor._

Yes, Bilbo Baggins, he thinks to himself, you’re in the Lonely Mountain, the dragon is dead, Bofur and Fili and Kili and Oin have returned safely from Laketown, and Thorin is…

Bilbo brings a hand up to his mouth, suddenly feeling overwhelmed and slightly ill. Thorin is obsessed with finding the Arkenstone, and Bilbo has kept it hidden from him and from the rest of the company. Again the hobbit struggles with his decision to withhold the stone from Thorin, as he has done many times since first taking it from the treasure hoard.

What right do you have, he thinks, the stone belongs to the dwarves, and Thorin says he needs it in order to be recognized as king. You were meant to get it back for him, not keep it for yourself!

Bilbo wishes, for perhaps the hundredth time since entering the mountain, that Gandalf were here. Despite the wizard’s tendency to disappear just before the company gets themselves into real trouble, Bilbo is sure that Gandalf would at least know what to do about the Arkenstone.

Balin thinks it will make Thorin worse, Bilbo reminds himself, and he ought to know better than you.

Still, Bilbo feels sick with guilt and dread. He worries that his friendship with the dwarf king will suffer too great a strain if Thorin discovers that he has kept the stone; that the fondness Thorin has developed for him, and the warmth Bilbo feels in his heart when Thorin smiles at him, will be gone entirely. But he worries even more that Thorin will lose himself completely if he has the stone in his grasp. And yet, is it not possible that at least some of Thorin’s suspicion and distrust would be assuaged if he had the stone? Is it not possible that he might spend less time standing transfixed in the gold hoard if he didn’t have to search for the Arkenstone anymore?

The hobbit sniffs and blinks up into the darkness again. I’m just a hobbit, Bilbo thinks, how am I to know what to do with gold-mad kings and magic stones?

Bilbo shifts again on his makeshift mattress, and starts to wonder just why it is still so wretchedly dark in his sleeping quarters. Hadn’t he been bedded down with the rest of the company in a large hall, complete with torches and lamplight? That thought sends an icy chill down Bilbo’s spine, as he realizes that the night-sounds of his companions, Bombur’s snores, the murmuring of those still awake, restless shifting on thread-bare blankets, is not to be heard.

Bilbo holds his breath and listens – and hears nothing but what sounds like the slow, even breathing of only one other person.

Where am I, Bilbo thinks. And the hobbit thrusts his hand into the pocket of his coat, just as he reaches out with his other hand to feel for the stone floor next to him. He is suddenly worried about the Arkenstone; where is it, he thinks frantically, and as he digs around in the large pocket of his over-sized coat, his fingers brush against something cold, and hard, and-

small.

The ring.

Bilbo squeezes his eyes shut tightly just as the fingers of one hand close around the ring in his pocket that he had mistaken earlier for the Arkenstone – how had it felt so heavy? – and his other hands makes contact with the hard surface he’s been laying on. Not stone, he finds, but hard ground covered with leaves, damp and dry at the same time, as though they fell from the trees many seasons ago and have been subjected to a slow rot.

Of course, Bilbo you fool! You’re in Mirkwood, traveling with Gandalf back to the Shire, and the Arkenstone-

Bilbo’s eyes pop wide open as the memory of the whereabouts of the Arkenstone returns to him. He takes a shuddering breath and fights against the noise that wants to claw its way from the back of his throat. He unconsciously tightens his grip on the ring in his pocket, and finds that the moist, cloying air of Mirkwood is hampering his breathing and fogging his mind just as it had done before.

You fool, he thinks despairingly, you gave the Arkenstone to Bard and the Elf-King. And now it’s buried deep in Erebor… _with Thorin_.

And with that thought, and that memory, Bilbo feels the familiar ache of grief settle into his chest, the hollow sort-of pain that makes him feel heavier than he’s ever been and older than the count of his years. Bilbo’s eyes burn and his throat constricts, and in the near-total darkness of Mirkwood he weeps quietly for the king under the mountain.

Thorin, he thinks, if I could have…

But Bilbo doesn’t finish that thought, because in the end, what could one hobbit have possibly done to make right all of the things that went so horribly, bitterly wrong?

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alaina (filiandkiliheirsofdurin) prompted: Bilbo keeps checking his pockets because he feels the heavy familiar weight of the arkenstone. but the stone is long gone and in Erebor, and the only thing in Bilbo's pocket is the ring.


	4. Bagginshield Alphabet - E is for 'Erebor' and 'Embrace'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the #Bagginshieldalphabet event on tumblr. Day 5 - Letter E.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's all fluff and happiness. I just really love it when Thorin is unsure of himself and Bilbo makes the first move :D Also the ‘set-up’ for this ficlet is that Bilbo left Erebor on good terms after the battle but before Thorin was fully healed.

 

 

The welcome Bilbo Baggins received at the gates of Erebor was more than he had anticipated, to say the least. After the call went out from the guard that the Hobbit had returned, Bilbo had been rushed and swept up into a rough hug by Dwalin, followed closely by Nori, Ori, Bofur, then Bombur (who Bilbo was grateful didn’t squeeze him to death); then one-by-one and two-by-two, Balin, Dori, Oin, Gloin, and Bifur all came to greet him as well.

There was much rowdiness, hard but loving pats on the back, some joyful tears, and many questions about his return journey and his business in the Shire, to which Bilbo laughed and said he’d be much happier to answer after having a bite to eat. But before Bilbo could be swept away by Bombur for a hearty meal, the Princes of Erebor arrived - or rather, they ran at breakneck speed to the gates, very nearly screeching to a halt before him.

Kili, laughing delightedly, pulled Bilbo up into a hug and spun him round, until the Hobbit was smacking him on the back and shouting, “Confounded dwarf, put me down!”

Fili, no less overjoyed but more subdued in his happiness, clasped Bilbo on the shoulders with both hands and leaned in to press his forehead to Bilbo’s (gently, to Bilbo’s great satisfaction).

“Welcome back, Mr. Boggins,” he said with a grin, and the whole lot of them erupted in laughter, which helped Bilbo to hide the sudden tightness in his throat and the hot swell of tears in his eyes.

“I told you all I would return,” Bilbo said with mock annoyance, composing himself, “but do you ever listen to me? I had to square away my possessions and remind some of my relatives that I am not, in fact, dead, before I could take up with you all on any kind of a permanent basis.”

More laughter from the Company, and a wink from Dwalin - but then Bilbo noticed Oin, Gloin, and Bofur, who stood near to the back of the group, looking at someone behind them with sobering faces.

And so it was that Bilbo’s eyes fell finally on Thorin, where he stood behind and a bit apart from the rest of the Company, clothed in a fine dark blue tunic with intricate embroidery, and a wide silver belt bearing the crest of the raven. A crown of polished steel formed in upward strokes like mountain peaks sat upon his brow, far less heavy-looking and more beautiful than the obsidian crown he had worn for a short while. Thorin’s beard had grown fuller and longer in the many months since Bilbo had last seen him, and was braided with shining gems and threads of silver; his dark hair, shot through with perhaps a bit more grey, was long and shining, braided in ways both familiar and unfamiliar to Bilbo.

Thorin looked for all the world the regal king he was born to be, standing straight-backed and with his head high and hands clasped behind his back.

With Thorin, King Under the Mountain, once again in his presence, all of Bilbo’s doubts and second thoughts about their mutual affection for one another came front and center in Bilbo’s mind. As Bilbo stepped closer to the King, he assured himself that Thorin had been, was, a friend; that they shared a friendship born of hardships and earned mutual respect and necessity; but that perhaps Thorin’s wide smile and shining eyes directed at Bilbo in the healer’s hall the morning of Bilbo’s departure had been nothing more than friendship and gratitude, that the flutter in Bilbo’s chest when they clasped hands had been an overreaction on his part, and that the dull ache Bilbo had felt for the dwarf during their recent separation had been decidedly one-sided. All of this Bilbo prepared himself to accept as truth, as the answer to the riddle of their relationship - that is, until the King spoke unremarkable words in something of a remarkable way.

The din in the front hall settled down as the Company noticed that their king and their burglar were staring at one another, and that neither had yet spoken. A mostly respectful hush fell, though someone (likely Kili) giggled.

“Welcome back, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, and inclined his head towards the Hobbit. In Thorin’s face Bilbo saw again the dwarf who longed for his home (only now he had his home, and his people were restored), and heard in his voice the same vulnerability that had once asked _Why did you come back?_ And Bilbo’s petty doubts about Thorin’s affections were assuaged.

Smiling brightly, Bilbo strode forward and went up on his toes to throw his arms around Thorin’s neck. Startled, Thorin took a moment to respond before wrapping the Hobbit in a tight embrace and pressing his face into travel-dirty curls. Bilbo breathed against Thorin’s shoulder, squeezed once more before releasing him; Thorin reluctantly followed suit. Bilbo looked up into Thorin’s face and was greeted with that well-remembered wide smile and shining eyes, and so he reached up a hand and cupped the bearded cheek for good measure.

“I’m glad to be back,” Bilbo said, his smile a match for Thorin’s. “To be home.”

 

 

 

 


	5. More than a song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
>  After the funeral, Bilbo puts on the ring, slips away from the others, and goes to see Thorin one last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Chapter tags: Grief, angst, canon compliance.
> 
> Prompted by Tony (anonymoussong). Gee thanks :)
> 
> Title taken from this quote from Games of Thrones by George R. R. Martin: “The singers make much of kings who die valiantly in battle, but your life is worth more than a song.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bilbo slips off the ring and comes to stand before the stone bier on which Thorin Oakenshield is laid. It ought to be easier seeing it now for having seen it before, but still his face twists in a grimace, and something knots painfully in his belly.

But he has a purpose, and he won’t be deterred from it now, not with his time here running out. Soon the celebration of King Dain’s coronation will begin, and how anyone can find it in themselves to celebrate now, Bilbo can’t guess. He only knows that he wishes to be gone before then, before the day is spent and he has to wake to a sunrise over the Lonely Mountain that Thorin and his nephews will never see.

He takes a breath.

“I thought I would come back here and say something very important,” he says, haltingly. “Perhaps that… that you didn’t deserve this.” And this is impossible, why has he come?

Bilbo chokes back a sob, takes a breath, starts again in a whisper.

“That you deserved so much more. That I will never forget you.”

Thorin has a stillness about him that ought be like sleeping, but for the fact that even in sleep, he was never so still, so without care, so unburdened. It strikes Bilbo all over again as utterly wrong, forces him to act. He reaches out and takes hold of Thorin’s hands where they lay clasped on his chest, separates them, holds one in his own.

It is so cold.

“Of course I will never forget you.” Barely a whisper. “What a stupid thing to say.”

Bilbo strokes the skin of Thorin’s hand, studies the lines around his knuckles, the little scrapes and tears, the callouses.

“The truth is,” Bilbo goes on, and he can’t look at his face, “that I don’t know what to say to you now, about all...”

Bilbo can riddle with creatures in the dark, taunt dragons, face Thorin in his madness, race into great battles, but this?

“I didn’t know then, back on the... and I don’t know now, and I suppose I never-”

It’s too much, it’s all too much to bear, and Bilbo bends his head in weeping, grasps Thorin’s hand tighter and presses the back of it to his forehead. He can’t separate the sharp pain in his chest from the memory of something bright that once flared there when Thorin looked at him in that way, and it’s altogether unfair, the whole of it, that Thorin should be lying here as still as the stone around them, while he walks away from it all, whole and hale, and goes home.

_Home_.

The one place he wanted so desperately to see again, to have as his own. Had Thorin ever felt that he was truly home again? Bilbo doesn’t know, but he thinks perhaps that yes, there was a time, short as it may have been…

He doesn’t know if it even matters, now.

Bilbo straightens up, shakes his head, takes a deep breath. Fumblingly refolds Thorin’s hands back in place upon his chest. Steps back from him, the act of doing so like a great unbalancing.

He looks at Thorin’s pale face, aglow with the light of the torches; the light catching in his hair, the sharpness of his features, the silver of his beard. Bilbo commits it all to memory. Breathes. Finds some strength to speak again, more firmly this time.

“I won’t forget you. You were more than just a king - and though I’m sure you’re the finest king I’ll ever meet, it wasn’t the whole of you.” His face twists in pain. “And that’s what I’ll remember,” he whispers.

_And all the rest of it, whatever it may have been or could have been, I’ll remember that, too._

“Farewell, Thorin Oakenshield.”

  
And Bilbo turns away, makes for the stairs that will lead him up and out to the great hall, out to the gates and to the great wide sky. The last leg of this bitter journey. Home.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  lol bye i hate this


End file.
